


Roses and Thorns

by Cloverheart



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Big Brother Mycroft, Castles, Fluff, Friendship, Hemophilia, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Johnlock Fluff, Just Friends, Kid John Watson, Kid Sherlock, Kidlock, No Smut, Other, Roses, Royal Sherlock, Runaway John, Sick Sherlock, Sickfic, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, a bit of angst, i guess, kidlock fluff, not much
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-04-17 15:16:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14191785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cloverheart/pseuds/Cloverheart
Summary: The Holmes family is a extremely wealthy, important royal group whose influence and power is spread wide across Europe. Sherlock is their 8-year-old youngest member who just happens to be a hemophiliac. He, as you might expect, is dreadfully bored with all this carefulness until he is stumbled upon by a kind and secretive little boy named John, who he takes a liking to immediately. Adventures ensure.The fluffiest of fluff. No slashy stuff,just friendship.I don't own Sherlock or it's characters, only in my dreams.TRIGGER WARNING: child abuse mentioned but not described in detail.





	1. Chapter 1

A/N: Please excuse me if John and Sherlock do not act like their respective ages, I'm not that great at writing from a child's view! Thank you, and enjoy! ^o^ 

Anybody who was somebody knew about the Holmes family. You simply couldn't not know of them. They were royalty, rolling in money and influential power, with a reputation the size of Scotland. And if you did know about them, like most people did, you heard all the gossip and the whispers surrounding them. You knew of Lord George, who was an agreeable fellow, with twinkling eyes and a bright smile and his wife who he dearly loved, Lady Annabelle, who was a right genius. She was kind and warm, and held herself with strong confidence. And of course you knew about Mycroft, who was... much different from his kindly parents, per say, all sharp edges and careful, calculated words, clad in dark suits and made of secrets. He was an interesting man, but most agreed he was best left alone. And then, you knew about the vein of tragedy the family had struck. Their second son, Sherlock, had been born different, and soon it became clear he suffered from a debilitating disease, hemophilia. The family had been crushed, but loved him nonetheless. And they were happy until their youngest daughter, Eurus, died tragically in a nursery fire. Yes, there was a shroud of sadness hanging around them, tailing them where they walked and clouding their eyes. Except, per say, one little boy...

"Myyycroft!" Sherlock groaned, pulling his elder brother's sleeve again and planting his feet hard on the ground with all the force of a stubborn 8-year-old boy who simply would not be moved.

"For the last time, William, I have to leave, so if you would be so kind as to release my sleeve-" Mycroft sighed, his voice careful and balanced, cut off by Sherlock's dramatic stomp and pout.

"You can't! You're gone all the time, and I'm BORED!" The boy's face was screwed up in contempt, his bad attitude glaring out.

"Sherlock, you will stay in your room, as directed, and you will listen to your maids. I have more important things to do. Read a book, or do an experiment, just don't create another fiasco. You wouldn't want me to tell mummy, would you?"

Sherlock gaped and glared at his brother, turning up his nose, and proceeding to throw himself onto his annoyingly cushion-y duvet in a sweep. He'd already read every book on the shelf, even the dictionary! And Mycroft knew it.

"Be careful," Mycroft called as he shut the door to Sherlock's chambers behind him.

That earned an epic eye-roll from the younger boy, though nobody was around to witness it. That was all anybody ever told him. What fun was he supposed to have if he was too busy being careful? Careful was dreadfully dull. He wasn't sure exactly what his family expected him to do in his life if all he ever did was lay around. But that was a problem most definitely meant for the future, so eight year old Sherlock tucked it away and immersed himself in finding a way to not die of this stifling boredom, folding his hands into a peak under his chin in a way that seemed, to him, very grown-up. He couldn't count on anybody coming to see him anytime soon, so that was out of the question. The little boy was certainly a handful and his nurses and teachers knew this quite well. They were particularly upset by his newly learned skill, which he proudly dubbed "deducing", and for that reason made sure to not interact with him until absolutely necessary. Sherlock scowled at this. He'd been rather proud of his abilities. After all, if nobody was going to tell him anything, he'd have to find it out for himself. There would be no new books to read or things to do because Mycroft was already gone. So, no books, ugh, and no people, which was usually fine with him, except now he was in for another long day of boredom trapped in his bed. A long groan escaped Sherlock's throat and he threw his pillow across the room for no good reason at all. It didn't go very far because Sherlock never used his muscles and plopped down in the middle of his obscenely large room, resulting in another sigh from the increasingly moody little boy. He was drawing himself into a massive sulk, pulling his thick covers over his head and crossing his arms, just about to settle down when he heard the door creak open slowly and the pattering of feet. Sherlock stiffened immediately and he switched to high-speed, rapid-fire deductions.   
Quiet footsteps, but not slow and I can hear the whole foot hitting the ground which means this person is light weight, and probably short. Moving quickly but quietly, and which means they are hiding from something or someone. However, breathing is steady which shows that they are acclimatized to dangerous situations. Or that this isn't a dangerous situation at all...  
Sherlock threw off the covers with a dramatic sweep and a smirk, sitting up quickly, jumping from the bed on the opposite side of the person and landing with a painful thump on the wood planks, crossing his arms again.  
"This is not an ideal place to play hide-and-seek, you dimwit. I recommend you leave before.. I report.... you...." He turned the corner of the bed and trailed off as he was faced with a young boy pressed in the corner between his bed and the wall, eyes wide and darting, full of fear.  
"I-I'm sorry, I thought this room was empty-"  
He cut himself off as he saw a shadow in the doorway, freezing, and he drew in a quick breath, diving immediately under Sherlock's bed. Sherlock only had time to look confused before a iron-clad guard was staring down at him through a threatening, cold mask, towering over the young child.   
"Have you seen a small boy come by here, Lord Sherlock?" He asked in a calm but menacing tone, making his point clear and as sharp as his uncomfortably close spear.  
But Sherlock's wit, which was a blessing and a curse, could not hold itself back.  
"Only one small child is going to come bye any time soon, and it will be your wife and your neighbor's-"  
The door slammed shut and after a brief, mostly one-sided shouting match Sherlock was left alone in the dusky light, deprived of dinner.  
He was feeling rather pleased with himself when he heard a snicker from under the bed and jumped, having briefly forgotten the boy, who snapped his mouth shut at the sight of Sherlock spinning to face him.  
"Who are you, and why are you running from the guards?" Demanded Sherlock, pointing an accusing finger.  
"Why did you help me?" The boy responded quietly, crawling out slowly from the hanging sheets and brushing dust from his sandy blonde hair.  
Sherlock sniffed. "This is my room and my family's castle, I think I have every right to answers from you." He turned his chin up and waited for an answer.  
"I don't think it would be a good idea to tell you, uh, Your Lordship?" Stuttered the boy, who seemed uncertain of Sherlock's title.  
"Oh, God, do not call me that, it makes me sound like Mycroft." He spat, still full of contempt at his elder sibling. "The name's Sherlock Holmes."  
"Alright, Sherlock. I don't think this.. um... situation? Yeah, this sit-u-a-tion (he sounded out the word, screwing up his nose a bit in concentration, trying to get it right) would get better if you knew me and what's happening." He chose his words carefully, judging Sherlock's reaction to each one. Now, his expression was full of worry.  
Sherlock growled and crossed his arms as angrily as he could, leaning forward and narrowing his bright blue-green eyes.  
"You've had a history of violence in your family, generally directed towards you and your brother. You're running from someone, and no, not the people in the castle, I'd put my money on your father. You used to have a reddish dog with medium-length fur, probably still alive but you haven't seen it in a while, again that points to running from home. You have a brother but you won't go to him for help, maybe because he's abusive as well, probably because of the drinking and you've found yourself in this castle because you are desperate and starving, am I wrong?" he fired off in a quick tone, enunciating the last three words.

The boy is speechless at first, processing everything Sherlock had said, just staring at him. And then he opened his mouth to speak and Sherlock readied himself for a stream of abusive phrases and curses.

"Amazing."

"What?" said Sherlock rather loudly, caught off guard and blinking owlishly at the other boy.

"What do you mean, what? It's... wow. No, you aren't wrong. Wha'd you need me to tell you, then, if you know all of that? And.. just, how?" He's shocked but seems to have forgotten all about the dangers outside the thick oak door, enveloped in the world of this strange little prince (he's not a prince, but who needs to spoil are little newcomer's dreams?) and staring up at Sherlock with something close to reverence.

The taller boy shook his head in surprise and straightened up, dignifying his expression once more. "No, it's just.. that's not what people normally say. All I needed to know is your name. And as for your last question, that may take longer than you have time for."

That snapped him back into reality and the fear once again took hold in his face, his hand shaking ever so slightly, but he never took his eyes off Sherlock once.

"My name's John. John.. um... Watson, yeah. And anyway, what do people normally say?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the lie, Watson was most certainly not his real last name, but he set it aside and answered.

"Piss off." The corner of his thin mouth quirked up, earning him a toothy smile full of blind trust and kindness from John, who was thoroughly fascinated now. His blue eyes were starting to dart, however, and the question still hung from the air.

"Why'd you lie for me?"

Suddenly, footsteps cut off an answer, sounding loudly outside, marching around the corner and ringing across the stone walls, walking in the same manner Sherlock knew from memory was heading straight to his room. They were quick and deliberate, those of guards. He cursed himself and drew in a quick breath, grabbing John by the arm. The younger boy squealed a bit but cut himself off as the footsteps drew near and offered little resistance as Sherlock dragged him into the closet and nudged him into a little cupboard that would seem far too small to fit a child to any outward observer, nearly suffocating the kid in a long, black coat. He darted out and closed the door with a little smile and a wink, stopping for a moment to say,

"Why wouldn't I help you? You're the least boring thing that happened to me in years!"


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: If I'm being honest, I don't really have much of a plot line going here... hehe... this is mainly just a silly little story for the fun of it! Enjoy! 

John "um...Watson" held his breath for longer than he had previously thought humanly possible that day in the closet, stuffed into the cupboard of a child of royalty, with his eyes squeezed shut in fear. He could hear the guards stomping outside and he could also definitely hear Sherlock's indignant complaints of their "invasion of privacy, you twats!" That part almost made him laugh and give himself away, but luckily instinct knew better than to let him do that. He was wound like a spring, ready to run, and he was pretty sure also in shock. His brain was taking a while to process this whole mess. At least, that's what he'd remembered shock was from his books.  
Then the closet door swung open with a crash.  
A tall, looming guard appeared with the sound, scanning the small space and casting a terrified John into absolute silence. For a moment, it was like the world had frozen. The voices outside dimmed to nothing. John didn't dare move a muscle and the guard became an iron statue, staring, staring, staring...  
Until they nodded in satisfaction, turned around, and lumbered out of the room, sending shockwaves of relief through John's body. He blew out a trembling breath that he hadn't noticed he was holding, and relaxed his death grip on the coat, wiping his sweaty palms on the cupboard sides, noting that strangely his one clear thought being that Sherlock wouldn't want his coat to get dirty. The noises outside of footsteps and metal faded along with Sherlock's angry pouting and yelling, and finally John heard the closet door swing open and the cupboard was opened, the coat flying off him.  
"Ah, John. Good to see you have not been suffocated." Sherlock nodded politely with a hidden smile, helping him stumble from the closet and onto the ground where his legs nearly gave way. John tightened his grip on Sherlock's arm, attempting to pull himself up, drawing a hiss of pain from the taller, curly haired boy who snatched his hand back, causing John to stumble to the ground in a heap and trip on Sherlock's silky, feathery sheets. The white material slid easily off the bed and billowed over the boys' heads, coating them in expensive material, making Sherlock lose his balance and fall, luckily, (in his eyes) onto John and a mass of sheets. The younger boy squeaked and squirmed under the weight but soon that was drawn to silence, morphing into a low, strange sound that Sherlock was afraid was crying, so he looked down only to see John trembling with silent laughter. It set him off as well, a grin spreading on his face and soon they were both hysterical, giggling and snorting with the ridiculousness of it all, and probably, reasoned John, a little bit of shock too.  
It was nice, the little moment. A moment of light headed happiness that existed in the way only children could comprehend and create. The world was so big and so scary sometimes, but there's something about a friend, about laughter that makes it all seem so small for a beautiful moment. But unfortunately, the two boys' fits of laughter were forced to be burned out soon with the pressure of the situation, and they were left just grinning quietly and observing one another for a moment before Sherlock broke the silence.  
"It's ridiculous, isn't it?  
John's eyebrows furrowed. "What?"  
"Well, obviously, that they thought you were a spy." Sherlock said with another half smile. (He was quite fond of those.) The paranoia of his family never ceased to amaze him. But necessary measures needed to be taken at times of conflict, he supposed.  
John choked and tripped forward a bit as he tried to sit up, wheezing. He couldn't help but imagine himself as a spy, a mental image popping up of John with his head by a door, hand cupped around his ear with a serious expression, and listening in on Sherlock yelling about privacy invasions and it made him giggle.  
"A spy?? I'm only 7!" It was indeed quite absurd. John looked taken aback but another burst of laughter escaped his lips and soon they both collapsed into fits again, until their sides hurt and they couldn't breathe.  
"We're in shock, aren't we?" John questioned, still wheezing.  
"You, definitely."  
"This is the craziest thing I've ever done."  
"And you hitchhiked to a castle!" Sherlock grinned.  
"Right, how did you know that?" Asked a curious John, leaning forwards towards the fascinating, curly-haired boy, the edges of a smile still playing on his face.  
Sherlock brightened up and smiled wider at the prospect of somebody who actually wanted to hear his reasoning, who might appreciate what he could do. What a rare occurrence indeed, this boy. He took in a deep breath, folded his hands, and began.  
"Well, the most telltale signs of running away are the unkept clothes and hair with signs of not having been washed, or in the clothes' case, changed, in several days, and the hungry and gaunt look to you. But to support that, there's the dog. On the inside of your jacket there's medium length red hair too big for a cat and too wiry as well, but it isn't present on the outside. This points to that the elements blew off the outside hair because you haven't been around the dog to accumulate more and the wind hasn't reached inside the coat yet to get rid of the leftover fur. Now, if the dog died, this could happen, but the coat would have been washed or cleaned soon. Why would you have run away from home? Most likely abuse and the belt scars on your hands prove that. I know you have an elder brother because of your watch. It's too expensive for the kind of clothes you are wearing so it must have been a gift from someone, most likely a sibling because if you had any extended family who cared enough to give you this they would take you in or at least intervene with the abuse. This is also a young man's gadget. So sibling but one who you won't go to. Why? The watch is old and worn which means it was a item used by your brother, not you, you don't have a suntan for the watch on your arm and it's summer so you haven't worn it for long and also nobody gives a four or five year old a watch like that. I can see the side engraving says "From Harry, to Clara," so it was probably a sentimental object dumped on you because your brother didn't want it. I can tell the drinking because he tried to scratch out the engraving but the scratches waver and slip even though they are made with a knife. That was a bit of a shot in the dark, but you said it was right. Did I miss anything?"  
Through the speech he had stood up and brushed off the sheets, and now he and John sat on the bed edge, swinging their legs back and forth. The latter boy was now struck speechless once more, shaking his head slowly in disbelief.  
"Well... um...everything but one. Harry's my sister." John said, his voice getting quieter and trailing off at the end as he bent his head to see five ugly purple bruises swelling up on Sherlock's arm where he had grabbed it, sticking out slightly. It upset him greatly.  
"Sister!" Sherlock hissed angrily, too absorbed in his world to notice John staring. "There's always something."  
"Sherlock, your arm. I'm sorry, I didn't realize-" apologized John frantically, hoping he hadn't spoiled the favor of this fascinating kid, and just because he was a kind soul.  
Sherlock looked down and gave a halfhearted attempt to look surprised at the bruising, before shrugging and meeting John's gaze again.  
"Oh, it's nothing. It's just hemophilia, no way you could have known." Sherlock had a high pain tolerance, which was very good, and absolutely hated being fussed over.  
John's eyebrows shot up. "Just hemophilia?" He felt rather intelligent for knowing what the disease was, silently thanking his worn old medical textbook he used to flip through, though there was little in it he understood.  
Sherlock frowned down at his arm once more, absentmindedly. "Yes, it's rather annoying, isn't it?"  
"Uh, yeah, I guess it must be..." John mumbled. Being honest, he didn't understand Sherlock. He was unlike any other child John had ever met. The words he used, the way he thought, his incredible skill that was almost like, well, mind-reading, an now this? How was he to treat such a child? People could be so very complicated and it was rather upsetting to the little 7-year-old who furrowed his brow and glared at the dark oak floorboards in contempt.

"Don't worry about how you should act around me. Act as though I were a child- well, I suppose I am a child, treat me like a normal child. That would be great. Anyway, let's go to the gardens."

John pushed aside his confusion at how Sherlock had known what he was thinking and focused on the more pressing matter at present. "What? Why? Won't we-" He was cut off as Sherlock sighed, rather over dramatically, and began explaining over John's quiet voice.

"Well, obviously, if we pretend I found you while I was out in the gardens, they won't suspect you anymore and Mycroft (he said the name slower and with much less enthusiasm than the rest of the sentence) can really observe you and they'll be able to disperse the positively absurd notion that you could be a child spy." Sherlock sniffed as he threw on a coat.

John was taken aback, given a moment to process this before being whisked briskly out of the very, very large and lavish bedroom by the arm. (dragged by the arm again, why couldn't he just ask for John to follow him?) 

"Didn't seem very obvious to me."

"Well, that's because you're an idiot." Sherlock said casually, without any real venom or emotion behind the words.

"Hey-" John responded while slowing his pace, his voice tainted with anger.

"Oh, don't be offended. Most everybody is."

They had gotten to the end of the hallway where a tall, expensive-looking double door stood, with golden handles and highlights. After a quick look in all three connecting passages, Sherlock was satisfied that they were safe and he grabbed one of the handles with both hands and pulled hard, but to no avail, almost falling backwards. John took his place with a nod and managed to get the door to swing open with a faint and drawn out creak, sending in a lazy sunbeam and a wayward leaf. The boys slipped into the crack and emerged into a new world of lush greenery, warmth, blue sky, and life. John was struck first by how huge and beautifully maintained the exotic-seeming garden was, with colourful flowers and huge trees and creeping green vines. Sherlock in his silk undershirt and black blazer looked very out of place, but his expression denied this. He looked totally comfortable and in his element.

"Follow the trail of red-pink flowers to the back wall. There will be a small crack in it, stop there. Try your best to look frightened. Oh, and rub some dust on yourself." The raven-haired boy said manner-of-factly while messing up John's own blonde hair (more than it already was), and strategically placing some wayward sticks and leaves on him, to do what John assumed was to make him look as though he had crawled through the wall. Then he abruptly stopped, cupped his hands around his mouth and screamed, "SOMEBODY COME OUT HERE AT ONCE!" at the top of his lungs, making John flinch and his hand twitch, before shoving him towards the flower path. John complied and crashed through the beautiful garden, with some regret as he crushed plants underfoot. Soon he was worrying that he might have lost the trail, as the flowers were fewer and farther between, and the vines got thicker and more choking, before he burst out and reached the hole. It was small, small enough for a little kid to crawl through and surrounded by lichens and mosses on the dark grey stone. John stepped forwards and did what Sherlock told him, sitting in the grass and hugging his knees fearfully. He began to sniff and breath a bit quicker, darting his eyes back and forth, drawing memories of his escape from his home to build a fearful expression. He rubbed his hands in the dirt and smudged some on his cheeks and forehead, readying himself.

"What is it, Lord Sherlock? Are you in danger?" came a muffled voice, floating through the undergrowth.

"No, no, I'm quite alright. But there's something you should see."


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Oh well, I forgot to keep writing... again... ahah... I should really get on that problem of mine. Anyways, here's the next chapter, enjoy!

 

Sherlock sat on the edge of his bed, tapping his fingers impatiently on the soft-edged wood and swinging his legs up and down as much as he could, as a little distraction. He let out a long sigh of impatience, fixing a lavish portrait of one of his grand old relatives with a death-like glare. The old lady stared back calmly, looking right at Sherlock with an indecipherable expression, pale, motionless.

It was a painting, after all. 

The gold frame glittered in the bright noon sunshine that spilled in from a small window twice as tall as Sherlock, almost out competing the painting itself for grandeur and aesthetic. Sherlock had to admit this to himself as he stared defiantly into the bright shine of the carvings, although the little boy actually loathed the sun. (he sure loathed a lot of things.) This was partially because to him, it was too bright and too invasive and he didn't like how it prevented him from looking in a certain direction. He would look wherever he wanted, thank you very much, and a large glowing orb wasn't going to stop him.

But it was also, admittedly, a bit more personal than that. What did this sun think it was, making the plants grow and the grass green and creating a lovely day that glowed with beauty, just to make Sherlock watch from the one bedroom window, and know he'd never be able to really enjoy it. It was like a starving, penny poor prisoner watching a grand feast for kings being laid on the table in front of him, decorated with lavish velvet and gold, while the prisoner only had his grimy steel bars and stale bread, not a banquet of rich, seasoned duck, fresh fruit without a speck or a bruise, lamb legs and steaming rice, the smells mixing in the air, and steam rising from all the fresh baked goods...  
Alright, maybe he was just hungry.  
He weighed the numbers. 34 hours was a long time to not have eaten a thing. But hey, more important things to deal with than nearly useless food morsels, like the little blond-haired boy with honest blue eyes who sat past the great chamber doors, waiting, waiting for his verdict...  
Sherlock groaned and laid back in his bed as violently as one could when one was in fear of internal bleeding. His hands clenched masses of sheets and he kept his eyes fixed on the doors, searching for any sign of movement. The large bruises on his back protested the position he lay in, making him wince and flinch. He could feel the patches of blue and brown throbbing, and he gritted his teeth in frustration, ase was about to tear the room apart if no news came quickly in anxiety and pure boredom. Nobody likes waiting in line, and this was basically waiting in a line without a foreseeable end. He began to pace soon, tearing himself from the bed sheets and tracing a straight line on the floorboards with his feet, bored, bored...

The doors flew open.

All of Sherlock's pent up energy was flung out with them and he raced to the doorway, skidding dangerously to see John, desperately starving for information and updates-

Only to be met with his big brother's hands stopping his excited bouncing on the balls of his feet, suspending him and dragging him away angrily.

"WHAT were you thinking?" hissed Mycroft, obviously enraged. He glared down at Sherlock's small form with an expression that meant no smart remarks.

Sherlock, of course, opened his mouth indignantly anyways, but before he could fire back, Mycroft cut him off.

"No, scratch that. You weren't thinking. Not at all. Trusting a stranger who the guards were after, running off into the garden, you could have died, Sherlock. I don't want to have to watch you all day, because you are not my responsibility! Try and have some dignity and self-respect, or you'll upset Mummy even more."

Mycroft's tone became less angry as he spoke, as it took on his carefully built mask of cold and emotionless. The outburst was quickly being wrapped under layers of uncaring logic. He glared daggers down at his younger brother but the rest of his face was still and gave nothing away. Sherlock had to admit, the words stung, more than he would ever let on, but well, who would he be to let his sibling drag him down like that?

"Well, here's a thought, Mr. fancy high-and-mighty, maybe, if you didn't keep me cramped up in here like expensive china behind glass, I.. wouldn't...."

He cut off his sharp words slowly as he turned to see John (he was joyous to see the kid, really) nervously tapping Mycroft's hand to get his attention, eyes averted, shuffling his feet.

"Um, sir? Please, don't yell at Sherlock. It's not his fault, y'know.. I, well, it's me, I..." John was nervous talking to the upper class diplomat and it showed as a blush crept up his face slowly and he trailed off, shifting closer to Sherlock and burying his hands in his worn, hole-peppered pockets. Never once did he meet Mycroft's dark gaze. Of course, even though John looked like a kicked puppy, Mycroft glared and huffed out a sigh at his words, unfairly showing signs of treating poor John like the "inconvenience he was."

"Don't talk to me like that. I believe I've been more than kind enough by allowing you, a lower-class, to stay here, in my family's castle, for six days. I appreciate your concern, but I'm quite sure that I know best." Mycroft sniffed, looking down upon the sandy-haired boy and dismissing him with a little wave of his white-gloved hands, sparing little more than a glance in John;s direction.

Sherlock felt a wave of anger sweeping over him at the remark, and narrowing his eyes, he stepped forwards to defend his friend-

But John didn't need a whole lot of defending, it seemed. He could do that bit on his own.

"I don't think that sending armed guards after a seven year old boy is a great example of knowing best! Look, you made Sherlock sad too now, and he's your brother, so what can you really know about me if you don't know that much about him?" John snapped quickly, anger overriding his shy fear. Just as quickly, though, he realized his mistake and his face grew bright red. He clapped his hand over his mouth and managed to squeak out a meek "Sorry," eyes looking up at Mycroft with (half-hearted) apology.  
Sherlock figured the kid had a fair bit of anger bottled up that could maybe use some managing.   
Mycroft, high and mighty as he was, figured that the kid really had some nerve accusing him like that and needed to be put right back in his place.  
"Two days. Two days and then you leave and don't look back."  
His voice was calm as he delivered the punishment, eyes level and cold. Sherlock's own anger grew with the words, and this time he raised his voice to shout at his older brother who he, in the moment, was sure he absolutely hated-  
"HEY-"  
But quickly, everyone but John had filed out of the room with a quick few clicking steps on stone and a cold glance, not caring to humor Sherlock, possible fearing the wrath of the temperamental eight year old, but most likely because they "couldn't be bothered to stay." The door slammed behind them, cutting off Sherlock's shout and freezing him in his movements, and if you were to listen the faint sound of a clicking lock would be heard too. Both boys were struck speechless at first, staring blankly at the door, before switching to staring at each other. It was almost comical, watching them as they processing the events of the past few minutes, blinking like a little pair of owls. Soon, Sherlock abruptly shattered the silence with a low sound, almost a laugh, but almost a gruff sigh. It could be anger or confusion or happiness, but most likely all three. Emotions flickered over his face, each one being dismissed by the boy as soon as they came, a result of his attempt to work through feelings and his dislike for them. Soon, the low sounds began to grow more and more light-hearted, a little softer, a little sweeter, and soon enough, before either kid knew what was happening, Sherlock had quickly turned to his side and squeezed John in a hug.  
It shocked the shorter boy, who froze up a bit under the embrace, marveling in it as much as he was surprised by it. He relished the way Sherlock touched him, calmly and kindly and with an offering if friendship and not harsh words and cruel blows, the way his arms wrapped around John warmly like a blanket, like a little barrier, a protector, the way his little laugh made John grin like a idiot. And well, it was... nice, to say little. It was all too easy to forget what it is to be loved, to be important, and Sherlock brought back the feeling in waves that crashed over him. He breathed in deeply, and relaxed, memorizing everything about how the moment felt, sinking into the feeling. He took in how the room smelled, like deep in a forgotten forest, like luxury soaps and warmth, like leather and sunshine.  
And oddly enough, to John, it smelled a little bit like home.  
It was far too soon that Sherlock pulled away and John was forced to stand up straight again, pulling his thoughts and senses together quickly. The warmth was gone fast, the sense of friendship, and what was left was the night-haired, blue-green eyed boy who stood tall with a grin spread across his face, a reminder. John had a million things to say and to ask, things that raced through his head back and forth, desperate for answers-  
"What was that for?"  
He winced, why had that question been the one to surface? It had come out a lot harsher than intended, sounding accusatory as opposed to questioning.  
It hurt to see Sherlock's smile drop a little, and to see him recoil in the tiniest ways, stung by the words.  
"No, no- I mean, well, why are you so happy? I didn't mean to.. I'm not sad or mad or anything at all! I just-" John rambled, waving his hands out in front of him in meaningless gestures, attempting to undo the hurt expression on Sherlock's face, because oh lord, he would do anything if it meant he could keep that feeling forever, of belonging, if he could keep the kindness and the hope and Sherlock in his life.  
"Well- I apologize? I-" Sherlock was a bit more confused than stung now, knitting his eyebrows together, and tilting his head in a manner that was a bit like a cat.  
"No, don't! I'm happy too, but just, um, what's really to celebrate?"  
"Well, you said it yourself, "I'm happy too". Ask yourself why and find your answer."  
Sherlock grinned, sounding quite like he was speaking in rhymes, like a prophetic old lady in a book, and although his words didn't actually rhyme, it gave off the impression that he was either a oracle or just quite tired.

"Well, uh, it's been nice to meet you, and it's cool that I get to stay in a castle! And also, you're like, really cool and this is way better than my life before... um, yeah, well...I guess..." John mumbled,tripping over his words, clasping his hands behind his back and shuffling his feet. There was a lot more that he wanted to say, a lot that he didn't say, but he just didn't have the words, the phrases, or the emotional intelligence to articulate his feelings, as he was, after all, only a 7-year-old. He'd also been through a whole lot of stress that day. You can't expect too much from the poor kid.

Sherlock's sharp gaze turned to pierce him, with eyes shining a harsh blue-green in the twinkling light, staring down the younger boy with both innocent curiosity and a hidden intensity. It was clear that if John wasn't going to express all his thoughts, opinions, or wasn't able too, nosy Sherlock would have to find out for himself. 

Well, at least he asked beforehand.

But to John's great surprise, after a heavy silence not too long, but long enough for it to be awkward, the night-haired boy didn't launch into a monologue, nor rattle John's feelings off listlessly and carelessly in a manner that was far too accurate to be normal. He also did not address John's little ramble of half-answers. Instead, he brightened up, smiled, and said,

"Well, you do know what it means, right? Now that you get to stay here, in my castle, with me, for 48 entire hours?"

John was quite confused. As a matter of fact, he did not know, and expressed his uncertainty plainly.

"No...?"

Sherlock's grin grew, almost luminous at this point. He was practically bouncing on his feet, filled with pent up energy. Now, John hardly knew the boy at all, but he could assume by now that there was a high chance of that grin not leading to something altogether positive, and naturally was a little bit worried about the outcome of his seeming adventures to come, whether or not the intentions meant well. So you can imagine he was really thrown for a bit of a loop with Sherlock's next words.

"We are going to make this the best two days of your life!"


End file.
